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VERSES 

by BESSIE CHANDLER 



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THE BLUE SKY PRESS 
CHICAGO MCMI 



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THE l.lBRAnV ©P 
Two CciM Rtoe«ve<» 

viAR. HO 1902 
a 






Copyright, ipoi, by 
Langworthy y Stevens 



Thanks are due the Editors of the 
Century, Scribner's Magazine, Harp- 
er's Bazaar, the New England Maga- 
zine, AND THE Cosmopolitan, for their 

KIND PERMISSION TO REPUBLISH IN THIS 
BOOK VARIOUS VERSES WHICH ORIGINALLY 
APPEARED IN THEIR COLUMNS. 



Of this book there have been printed two hun- 
dred and fifty copies on Ruisdael hand-made 
paper; this being number ,■ / ^ 



CONTENTS 



In Loving Memory 




9 


The Song of Meleager 


12 


On a Head of Christ 


BY QUINTIN 




Matsys [Fifteenth Century) 


14 


Brothers of Antaeus 




16 


The Yellow Elms 




19 


The Sinner 




21 


Keys 




22 


Her Face 




24 


Rose Evidence 




26 


The Skeleton at the 


Feast 


28 


Peleus to Thetis 




29 


A Tired Heart 




32 


Release 




zz 


Two Types 




zs 


Unawares 




37 


The Coming of Fame 




39 


A Cry of Unbelief 




41 


Jacqueminot 




42 


The Tryst 




43 


To a Child 




44 


The Two Bells 




46 


Spring 




48 


The Conqueror 




50 



The Journey 52 

The Message of the Rose 54 

His Christmas Gift 56 

Afterglow 58 
St. Valentine's Day in the Morning 59 

Poems 61 

Old Battle Plains 6;^ 

The Death of the King 6^ 

Girdled 68 

The Lights of Ithaca 70 

The Death of Balder 73 

The Word and the Response 75 
To the Bride in "The Russian 

Wedding Feast" 76 

Marguerites 77 

The Envy of Grief 78 

Her Heart 79 

November 81 

Unfinished 83 



BRICABRAC VERSE 




Out of Key 


87 


Christmas Greens 


89 


The Irony of Greatness 


90 


To Mrs. Carlyle 


92 


The Whirligig of Time 


95 


A Pitiful Picture 


97 


The Japanese Fan 


98 


Tempus Fugit 


102 


Two Scenes from an Unpublished 




Drama 


104 


If I Were a Ghost 


106 


Among the Lilies 


108 


Shoes as they Are Worn 


109 


A Change 


112 


"Between You and I" 


"3 


The Stork's Jeremiade 


115 


Oh, Great True Heart 


121 



IN LOVING MEMORY OF 

RALPH CHANDLER, 
REAR ADMIRAL, U. S. N., 

WHO DIED AT HONG KONG 
FEBRUARY Ilth, 1 889 

THERE is a spot, — they call it "Happy 
Valley' — 
I cannot think of it, with eyes undim; 
For there beside the restless sea of China, 
There — underneath the palms, they buried 
him. 

No mournful hearse with stately, gloomy 

trappings. 
Laid its black shadow on his quiet breast. 
But, hke a giant stooping to be gentle. 
The great gun-carriage bore him to his rest. 

No solemn, sable plumes above him nodded. 
No funeral pall beneath in dark folds fell; 
He lay, wrapped in the flag that he had 

fought for. 
The starry flag, that he had loved so well. 



IN LOVING MEMORY lo 

And strangers in a strange land paused to 

show him 
Such homage as one gives a good man dead; 
And yet no honour in that hour could equal 
The silent tears that his own sailors shed. 

Then o'er his open grave they fired a volley, 
And then instead of funeral chants or psalms, 
A bugler gave the call to rest at evening. 
And so, they left him — underneath the 
palms. 

It was so far away I could not send them 
One little flower to lay upon his grave. 
So far, that only love and grief could travel. 
Those weary miles of land and wind-tossed 
wave. 

But now, to-day, for his dear sake, I gather 
And send from my heart to that sea-locked 

land. 
These few poor flowers of verse, — not worth 

the giving. 
Unless he knows, then he will understand. 



IN LOVING MEMORY ^^ ii 

They are imperfect, — yes, and all unworthy 
To lay on that green grave, so far away; 
But he, — who loved me, — loved my little 

verses. 
And I, — who loved him, — give him all to-day. 



THE SONG OF MELEAGER 12 

ALL things are changed since first I met 
you, sweet; 
Mysoul is like a flame of pure desire. 
Hot is my heart, and wild its troubled beat, — 
My mother lays the brand upon the fire! 

For at my birth they came, those mystic three. 
Like soft dim shadows in their robes of gray 
And one said life would only last for me. 
Till on the hearth the brand had burned away, 

Ah, then my mother snatched it with sure 

hand. 
And drew it from its fiery bed unharmed. 
And she has guarded all these years, the brand 
And so I live as one whose life is charmed. 

But now, — I know not — does my mother 

tire? 
Or have I angered her some fateful day ? 
Surely she lays the brand upon the fire. 
Surely my life burns with its flame away. 



THE SONG OF MELEAGER 13 

All things are changed, sweet, since I first met 

you. 
Vanished like smoke above a funeral pyre. 
The old life passes, — will you give me new? 
My mother lays the brand upon the fire! 



ON A HEAD OF CHRIST BY QUIN- 
TIN MATSYS {Fifteenth Century) 

A grieving face, adown whose hollow cheek 
The bright tears fall from tender mourn- 
ful eyes; 
Eyes, sad with never finding what they seek, 
Lips, curved by many weary wasting sighs. 

The tear-drops glisten, — frail they seem and 

slight. 
As though a breath would sweep them into 

air; 
And yet four hundred years of day and night 
Have passed since first the painter formed 

them there. 

How strange that they should last, those 

painted tears, 
While kingdoms perish, nations fall and rise; 
Strange that through all the stormy rush of 

years 
They lie unchanged in those sad, grieving 

eyes. 



ON A HEAD OF CHRIST BY QUIN- 
TIN MATSYS {Fifteenth Century) 

Does He still mourn? The world from Him 

enticed 
Wanders afar, and will not walk His way. 
O patient One ! O weary, watching Christ, 
Are the tears wet upon Thy face to-day ? 



BROTHERS OF ANTAEUS i6 

THERE was a giant in the ages olden, 
Greater than other giants from his birth, 
Who for his strength and courage was 

beholden 
To her, — that mightiest of mothers — Earth. 

And just to show him that she held him dearer 
Than other men, and blessed and loved him 

more, 
Each time he touched her close, came near 

and nearer. 
She made him stronger than he was before. 

Though he were worn with wasting wounds 
unnumbered, 

Gained in fierce conflict with the sons of men, 

He put his head in her great lap and slum- 
bered. 

And when he wakened he was strong again. 



BROTHERS OF ANTAEUS 17 

Antaeus, even now our hearts are beating 
With the same blood that throbbed in thine 

at birth, 
Across the centuries, we send thee greeting. 
We are thy brothers, born of that same earth ! 

Though through the year we journey on as 

strangers. 
That wander far from her who loves them best, 
And meet with many troubles, many dangers. 
And seek in vain, for any place of rest, — 

See how we start when Spring's white buds 
are bursting; 

See how we thrill when first the robins call; 

See how we rush to our great mother, thirst- 
ing 

Just for one look of her who made us all ! 



BROTHERS OF ANTAEUS i8 

We know her in the pussy-willows' gleaming, 
We hear her in the nesting birds' low song. 
Where drowsy ferns awaken from their dream- 

And wild flowers bloom, we touch her and 
grow strong. 

With gladdened eyes we look at one another, 
No fear of coming evil haunts us then. 
For like Antaeus, we have touched our 

Mother, 
And in that touch, she makes us strong again. 



THE YELLOW ELMS 19 

SHE lay within her chamber, pale and ill, 
Bound to her bed by cruel bonds of pain. 
Outside the leaves were falling — all was still 
Save for the dripping of the dull, sad rain. 

The elms that year were yellow, all the way 
From top, to those low boughs that cling 

and grace 
Their tall straight trunks, like little curls that 

stray 
And cling, caressing, o'er a woman's face. 

And through the leaves as through a yellow 

pane. 
The light shone in, all golden, on her bed, 
And every morn, unwitting of the rain, 
"Another sunny day," she, smiling, said. 

She never knew how gloomy, dark, and gray 

Those long days were. In time we came to 

bless 

The elms, that gave her sunshine every day, 

And robbed the rain of all its dreariness. 
* iij ♦ 



THE YELLOW ELMS 20 

Has the world grown as sunny as I ween? 
I cannot see it clearly, as of old, 
For like the elms, your love has come between 
My life and me, and turned it all to gold ! 



THE SINNER 21 



fear not God, — if In yon far blue Heaven 
There be a God — he knows man from the 



I 

start, — 
Knows all thewoe and anguish to him given, — 
I fear not God — for God can read the heart. 

I fear not man, — his scorn or his reviling. 
Though I should stand apart, a thing accurst 
I yet could meet all his contempt with smiling 
I fear not man, for man has done his worst. 

I only fear the eyes of loving faces, 
Dead long ago, and buried out of sight. 
I see them in the dark and dusky places 
I see them looking at me In the night. 

They watched me once because they loved 

me dearly, 
Now pained and sorrowful I see them grow; 
And from that other world they see so clearly 
Those eyes I closed with kisses long ago ! 



KEYS 22 

LONG ago, in old Granada, when the 
Moors were forced to flee. 
Each man locked his home behind him, tak- 
ing in his hand the key. 

Hopefully they watched and waited, for the 
time to come when they 

Should return from their long exile, to those 
homes so far away. 

But the mansions in Granada, they had left in 

all their prime. 
Vanished, as the y^ars rolled onward, 'neath 

the crumbling touch of time. 

Like the Moors we all have dwellings, where 

we vainly long to be, — 
And through all life's changing phases, ever 

fast we hold the key. 

Our fair country lies behind us; we are exiles, 
too, in truth. 

For no more shall we behold her, — our Gran- 
ada's name is youth. 



KEYS 23 

We have our delusive day-dreams, and rejoice 

when now and then. 
Some old heart-string stirs within us, and we 

feel our youth again. 

"We are young!" we cry triumphant, thrilled 
with old-time joy and glee. 

Then the dream fades slowly, softly, leaving 
nothing but the key! 



HER FACE 24 

SCANT beauty nature gave her; in dis- 
guise 
Rugged and harsh, she bade her go about 
With face unlovely save the dark, sad eyes 
From which her fearless soul looked bravely 
out. 

But life took up the chisel, used her face 
Roughly with many blows, as sculptors use a 

block. 
It wrought a little while, and lo, a grace 
Fell, as a sun-beam falls upon a rock. 

Across her soul a heavy sorrow swept, 

As tidal waves sweep sometimes o'er the land, 

Leaving her face when back it ebbed and 

crept. 
Tranquil and purified, like tide-washed sand. 

And of her face, her gentleness grew part. 
And all her holy thoughts left there their 

trace. 
A great love found its way within her heart, 
Its root was there its blossom in her face. 



HER FACE 25 

Lo when death came, to set the white soul 

free 
From the poor body, that was never fair; 
We watched her face and marveled much to 

see 
How life had carved for death an angel 

there. 



ROSE EVIDENCE 26 

SOMETIMES, upon a dusty country 
road, 
We meet a breath of sudden sweet perfume, 
And find alone, aloof from all abode. 
Old-fashioned roses rioting in bloom. 

Near by, half hidden in the knee-deep grass. 
The myrtle gleams, a richer, deeper green. 
And stares with blue eyed wonder as we pass. 
Then nestles low and dreams itself unseen. 

All signs of life or ownership have fled. 

Only the green grass stretches far and near; 

And yet the roses and the myrtle bed 

Say mournfully: "A home stood one day 

here." 

* * * 

Dear friend, though you may look with cold, 

hard eyes 
At all life*s follies, — mock its joy and woe. 
You cannot trick me with your stern disguise; 
The secret of your buried life I know. 



ROSE EVIDENCE 27 

For once, beneath the furrows Time has 

plowed, 
Behind the stony wall the years have reared, 
I caught a glimpse of sweetness, unavowed, — 
A tender look that came and disappeared. 

And now, though unbent will and iron nerve 
Have moulded all your face with cruel art, 
I see around your mouth that tender curve, 
And know that once Love dwelt within 
your heart. 



THE SKELETON AT THE FEAST 

OF old they placed at every victor's side 
A grinning skeleton who sat in state, 
And chilled the joy and clouded all the pride, 
And held men humble though their deeds 
were great. 

Sometimes the guests would turn to him and 

bow; 
Sometimes, his royal empire to recall. 
They'd place a crown upon his fleshless brow. 
For kings may reign, but Death is Lord of all! 

Yet they were not deceived — their eyes were 

keen; 
The dead thing crowned, no living power was 

deemed, 
And though they honored him with look and 

mien. 
They knew him, for the grisly thing he 

seemed. 

To-day we do not know, — for see! we two 
Sit smiling at each other, side by side; 
Are you alive ? I cannot tell, and you — 
You do not know how long ago I died! 



PELEUS TO THETIS ig 

AFTER long watching and waiting I 
have found thee ! 
Thou are the fairest, the sweetest one I know. 
See — I have caught thee — I fling my arms 

around thee. 
Fast, fast I hold thee and will not let thee go! 

What ! dost thou struggle, nor tamely will 

surrender ! 
What ! dost thou strike me, wild creature 

that thou art ! 
Ah, but I know thee — thou loving art and 

tender; 
Underneath the sea-nymph lies the woman*s 

heart. 

Vainly thou strivest ! Those white arms can- 
not smite me, 

I will but kiss them along their soft white 
length, — 

Now — art a lioness, that thou should tear and 
bite me? 

Look — Love is stronger than all thy lion's 
strength! 



PELEUS TO THETIS 30 

Fast, fast I hold thee and now I can but fear 

thee ! 
Is it a serpent that hisses soft and low, 
Slimy and writhing, whose baneful eyes burn 

near me ? 
Woman or serpent — I will not let thee go ! 

Then, through my fingers, like limpid, run- 
ning water. 

Softly thou flowest, — I clasp each wayward 
wave. 

Hearing low laughter. Oh sea-king's mock- 
ing daughter. 

Still in thy ripples, forever I will lave ! 

Now to my bosom, a fiery figure presses. 
Leaping and lambent, a form of living flame, 
Wreathing around me, with wicked, wild 

caresses, — 
Cruel, mad caresses, that only scar and maim! 



PELEUS TO THETIS 31 

Yet how I love thee ! These torturing dis- 
guises 
Are but as phantoms, that have no part in thee. 
Fast, fast I hold thee, in spite of all surprises, 
Till the true woman comes back again to me! 

What ! All is over, and in my arms art lying, 
Sobbing thy heart out upon my wounded 

breast ? 
Hush, hush ! No pain, dear, can hurt me 

like thy crying; 
Kissed are thy eyelids, thy heart on mine, at 

rest. 

There — I have loosed thee ! I will not hold 

thee weeping ! 
Leave me — return to that old free life of thine! 
Surely I dream 1 Are thy arms around me 

creeping ! — 
Fast, fast I hold thee, my love, forever mine ! 



A TIRED HEART 32 

SOMETIMES I cry: "Oh, give my 
tired heart rest ! 
It is so weary of the throb and strain 
Of loving, weary of the stress and strain 
Of care for others. Pluck love from it, lest 
It faint neath the burden on it pressed ; 
As one takes work away from hand or brain, 
Saying: 'Rest a little, then work on again,* 

So, take love from this thing within my breast; 
Give it from all its struggle glad release; 
Calm its wild beats and soothe its restless cry!'* 
Then to myself my tired heart makes reply: 
"Oh, foolish one, should all my loving cease 
Thou wouldst have rest as clods and stones 

have peace. 
Lifeless, inert — for without love I die !'* 



RELEASE 33 

THERE was one heart in Brussels years 

My own heart tells me that this thing is 

true, — 
One breaking heart that night of Waterloo; 
It was a woman's heart, I seem to know, 
Whose smiling face its anguish sought to hide, 
Whose dancing feet its heaviness belied; 
Yet when the cannon's voice broke rudely in 
And marred the music, then that heart grew 

light,— 
Its misery was hushed amid the din; 
The fair face brightened in the dread and 

fright. 
"Have you no fear ?" they asked, who wept 

and fled. 
"At least the dance is ended now," she said. 



RELEASE 34 

There is one heart here in the world to-day, — 

My own heart tells me that this thing is true, — 

That unsuspected goes upon its way. 

And dances, as the other dancers do. 

Yet should the day come when the trumpet's 

voice 
Shall still all other music here below, 
That heart would leap, and quicken, and 

rejoice. 
And say, amid the universal woe, — 
"What is there now, for us to dread or fear. 
Since life, at least, is ended for us here ?" 



TWO TYPES 35 

The Fabled Prometheus 

ON a great rock upon a lonely shore, 
Beyond the awful Scythian desert waste, 
Where the wild earth the wilder ocean faced 
And met with onslaught and with battle 

roar, — 
There was he sent, who fire from heaven bore; 
There by Jove's mighty forces was he placed, 
His strong, grand limbs with bolted chains 

disgraced. 
While earth and air and sea cried, "Hope no 

more !*' 
And there he stands, and evermore shall 

stand. 
Unyielding, in defiant attitude, — 
The type of all who, in whatever land. 
Meet life's hard blows in grim, defiant mood; 
Who though bound fast by fate with iron 

hand. 
Defy her, conquered but yet unsubdued. 



TWO TYPES ^6 

Isaac 

LONG years ago, up Mt. Moriah's side, 
An old man and a youth toiled on their 

way, — 
The old man bore a heavy heart that day. 
And he would glance with fond, despairing 

pride 
At the boy's face, and then he seemed to pray. 
But heard no answer save the word "Obey/' 
So on they climbed led by an unseen guide. 
To that young boy, who saw with undimmed 

eyes. 
The world was fair, and life was sweet, but 

still, 
Though in his heart a vast regret would rise. 
He bore his heavy burden up the hill. 
And let himself be bound for sacrifice. 
And murmured not — it was his father's will. 



UNAWARES 37 

HE leaned from out the dusty car, 
And looked far up the village street, 
Where great green boughs met overhead, 
And all the air was soft and sweet — 

He watched, half wistful, half amused. 
The country traffic ebb and flow. 
The farmers* wagons in the shade. 
The village people come and go — 

A little girl stood near the track, 

With cheeks that matched her fresh pink 

gown. 
She watched the train that blocked her way, 
With quick, impatient little frown. 

He felt the charm of simple things, 
The magic of a drowsy day. 
Then the bell rang, the whistle screamed. 
And he was whirled upon his way. 



UNARARES 38 

He had no thought that summer noon 
That this small village, fresh and green, 
Would come to be his fairy-land. 
Where that young girl would reign, his 
queen. 

Nor did she dream while standing there. 
Impatient of the slight delay. 
This train was an enchanted coach. 
That bore her lover far away ! 



THE COMING OF FAME 39 

LIKE a poor wakeful child, who, left 
alone, 
Feels unknown terrors in the hush of night. 
And lifts his voice, not once but many times. 
Calling his mother, begging her to come. 
Craving her presence in his loneliness. 
And then, ere she has come to soothe and 
cheer, 

Falls fast asleep, nor needs her any more; 
Nor knows if late she answered to his call. 
And paused with gentle step beside his bed, 
And sighed a little even as she smiled 
And kissed him, softly leaving him again; 
So did I call you, Fame. So all my heart 

Cried for your coming. Through the deep- 
ening gloom 
I strained my eyes, — I listened if perchance 
Only your far-off foot-step I might hear. 
But you were deaf to my beseeching cry. 
No pleading voice could draw you to my side. 
And then, — I fell asleep. Now you are here. 



THE COMING OF FAME 40 

And have you come to smile upon me once, 
And kiss my lips and hold my hands in yours? 
Nay, but I cannot tell you I am glad ! 
Nor would I waken, though it were to see 
Your face, dear Fame — for you have come 
too late! 



A CRY OF UNBELIEF 41 

AS mothers sometimes draw their children 
near, 
And gaze into their eyes and kiss their 

mouths, 
And say, "You do not love me," knowing the 

while 
How full the child-heart beats with love for 

them. 
Yet say it for the keen ecstatic joy 
Of hearing that which is so sweet to hear; 
So do we say in this sad day of ours, 
"There is no God; there is no good, no hope." 
And believe it not, but wait with wistful hearts 
And eager ears to hear our words denied. 
Men call us faithlesss — we, who yearn for 

faith; 
Who long to hail the one that shall arise. 
And fling our cheap words back at us with 

scorn. 
And with impellent, passionate, grand faith. 
Proclaim the precious thing we long to hear. 



JACaUEMINOT 42 

WHO is there now knows aught of his 
story ? 
What is left of him but a name ? 
Of him who shared in Napoleon's glory, 
And dreamed that his sword had won him his 
fame! 

Ah ! the fate of a man is past discerning ! 
Little did Jacqueminot suppose, 
At Austerlitz or at Moscow's burning, 
That his fame would rest in the heart of a rose! 



THE TRYST 43 

SOMEWHERE there is a stone: I go to 
meet it, 
And all life bears me onward like a wave, 
Yet when we meet, I shall not know nor greet it. 
For it will come to rest upon my grave. 

Where is it now? Still in the earth embos- 
omed, 
And waiting for my death to set it free? 
Or *neath the chisel's touch already blossomed, 
And lacking only in its tale of me? 

Oh, strange that ere my life had a beginning. 
That stone was made, and for no other man. 
And all my years of sorrow and of sinning. 
Are but the end for which its life began! 

I journey onward toward it, waking, sleeping; 
We may meet soon, or not till I am old. 
But neither love nor hate can stop my keep- 
ing 
The solemn tryst that stone and I must hold! 



TO A CHILD 44 

OH, my child, my pure and perfect man- 
child. 
With the light of heaven in your eyes, 
And your yellow hair like glory resting 
O'er a face so angel-sweet and wise! 

Oh, my child, I hold your hand and tremble 
When I think of all that you must meet. 
On the way where there is naught to guide 

you. 
Save my clouded eyes and stumbling feet. 

All the nobleness that sleeps within you. 
Waits my touch to waken into grace; 
Ah, the man you will be, haunts my future. 
With reproach, not love upon his face! 

Is the gardener not appalled and daunted. 
When he sees but leafless twigs, and knows 
That within the bare brown things, there 

slumbers. 
Waiting for his waking hand, the rose? 



TO A CHILD 45 

So I fear, from fingers all unskillful, 
Some rude touch your perfect growth may 

mar; 
If the pruning-knife slip but a little, 
You must carry, all your life, a scar. 

Oh, my child, unknown, unconscious cur- 
rents 

Meet and mingle in your young, warm blood; 

So, God help me when your soul shall blos- 
som. 

And — God help me should I blight its bud ! 



THE TWO BELLS 46 

LONG years ago, so runs the ancient 
story, 
Two bells were sent from Spain to that far 

clime 
New found beyond the sea, that to God's 

And in His house together they might chime. 

And to this day, one bell is safely swinging 
Within its shelt'ring tower, where clear and 

free. 
It hallows each day with its mellow ringing, — 
The other bell, the mate, was lost at sea. 

And when in gentle tones the bell is pealing, 
The people listen, for they say they hear 
An echo from the distant ocean stealing, — 
It is the lost one's answer, faint yet clear. 

Ah, love, like those two bells, we sailed to- 
gether, 

And you have reached your holy work and 
rest. 

But stormy was the way, and rude the weather 

And I was lost beneath the wave's white crest. 



THE TWO BELLS 47 

Over my buried heart, the waters glisten, 
Across my breast the sea-weeds wave and 

twine, 
Dead is my soul's best hfe, save when I listen 
And hear your spirit calling unto mine. 

Then the old longing wakes, I start, I shiver, 
I try to burst the bonds which hold me dumb, 
I turn, I strive, with many a throe and quiver, 
I feebly answer, but I cannot come. 



SPRING 48 

AS little children gather 'round their 
mother 
And beg her a familiar tale to tell, 
One that is dearer far than any other, 
Because so often heard and known so well; 

And as they watch her, prompting, should she 

falter. 
And any variations quickly see. 
And cry, "don't tell it so — don't change and 

alter. 
We want it just the way it used to be !" — 

So do we come to thee, O Nature, Mother! 
And never tire of listening to thy tales. 
Tell us thy Springtime Story now — no 

other — 
That has a wondrous charm that never fails. 

Tell it with all the old-time strength and glory, 
Fill it with many a happy tone and shout; 
Don't miss one bird or blossom in the story. 
Don't leave one daffodil or daisy out. 



SPRING 49 

Tell us each shade in all the trees' soft green- 

Don*t skip one blade of grass, one leaf, one 

wren, 
Each little thing has grown so full of meaning. 
In the dear story we would hear again. 

O, Mother Nature, thou art old and hoary 
And wonderful and strange things thou cans't 

tell. 
But we, like children love the Springtime 

Story, 
And think it best, because we know know it 

well. 



THE CONQUEROR 50 

TO his dead heart alone I will surrender; 
He, whom death conquered, now has 
conquered me. 
I held my fortress like a brave defender — 
Now it stands open for the world to see. 

There was a castle once, in ancient story, 
Besieged by one so noble in his fame. 
That when he died the people thought it glory 
To yield him what no living knight could 
claim. 

So, as he lay, in dented armor sleeping — 
A hero, after wearing strife at ease — 
They gathered near and gave into his keeping, 
Safe in his mailed hand, their castle keys. 

So do I yield to-day to you, my lover 
Who died before my hard heart's frowning 

wall, 
And never knew its harshness did but cover 
Only a longing to surrender all. 



THE CONQUEROR 51 

Here are the keys, the last reserve is broken — 
What does it matter now since all is past? 
Let all men hear, and know that by this token 
I loved you only, loved you first and last. 



THE JOURNEY 52 

IT is many a year since in sunny weather 
We started, nor cared if the way were long: 
There were Youth, Health, Love, and my- 
self: together 
We sang, and our voices were clear and strong. 

What joy we had in the beautiful weather ! 
How flowery the way that our path lay 

through! 
How we laughed in the gladness we shared 

together! 
How green were the fields, and the sky how 

blue! 

If the sky grew gray, in the rainy weather 
Why, a dull gray sky could do us no harm; 
Or if chill winds blew, we were still together, 
Close, close together, and so kept warm. 

But, alas, one day (it was autumn weather) 
Youth stopped, and his face was wan and 

white. 
"We can journey no more," he cried, 

"together;" 
But he waved his hand, till we passed from 

sight. 



THE JOURNEY 53 

Health faltered next (ah, bad was the 

weather!) 
"I will join you," he said, "in a little while;" 
So Love and I walked onward together, 
With backward glances for many a mile. 

We have gone on since in all kinds of weather, 

We have waited for Health at each stopping- 
place. 

And we sought in vain, thought we sought 
together. 

For Youth, who left us with wan white face. 

But I have not missed them, nor minded the 

weather. 
Nor cared if I failed in every quest. 
For Love and I made the journey together; 
Love never left me; what mattered the rest? 



THE MESSAGE OF THE ROSE 54 



HE 



SHE gave me a rose at the ball tonight. 
And I — I'm a fool, I suppose. 
For my heart beat high with a vague delight — 
Had she given me more than the rose? 

I thought that she had, for a little while, 
Till I saw her — fairest of dancers — 
Give another rose, with the same sweet smile, 
To another man in the Lancers. 

Well, roses are plenty and smiles not rare; 

It is really rather audacious 

To grumble because my lady fair 

Is to other men kind and gracious. 

Yet who can govern his wayward dreams? 
And my dream so precious and bright. 
Now foolish, broken, and worthless seems. 
As it fades, with her rose, tonight. 



THE MESSAGE OF THE ROSE 55 

SHE 

I GAVE him a rose at the ball tonight — 
A deep red rose, with fragrance dim, 
And the warm blood rushed to my cheeks 

with fright, 
I could not, dared not look at him. 

For the depths of my soul he seemed to 

scan, — 
His earnest look I could not bear. 
So I gave a rose to another man — 
Any one else — I did not care. 

And yet, spite of all, he has read, I know. 
My message — he could not have missed it; 
For his rose I held to my bosom, so. 
And then to my lips, while I kissed it. 



HIS CHRISTMAS GIFT 56 

IT seems like a hundred years ago, 
That we traveled once through the drifted 
snow 
To meet 'round the Christmas-tree. 
You were a child, with a fair, round face, 
And you hung on the tree, with a shy, sweet 

grace. 
Your Christmas present for me. 

'Twas a scarlet, beaded pincushion heart. 
Brilliant and shiny — a triumph of art — 
With a bead bird on it — a dove. 
*Twas bought of a "squaw" (who spoke with 

a brogue). 
And you said in your note — dear little rogue — 
That you gave it me "with your love." 

Well, that little red heart has been with me 
Through distant countries far over the sea, 
Crossed river, mountain and lake; 
Though never a pin have its tough sides 

known. 
For the heart was as hard as Pharaoh's own, 
But I loved it for your sake. 



HIS CHRISTMAS GIFT 57 

WeVe very much older and wiser now, 

We meet with a formal word and bow, 

And many more things we know; 

We don't hang our hearts on trees, I believe, 

Nor wear them either upon our sleeve; 

Is it better, I wonder, so? 

The tree is laden with gifts tonight. 
And the colored tapers are gleaming bright. 
And the Christ-Child floats above; 
But my hoped-for gift isn't on the tree, 
I want a heart, — will you give it to me. 
As you did before, "with your love" ? 



AFTERGLOW 58 

IS AW the eastern sky aflame last night 
With rose-like colors, gloriously clear, 
While in the west the sun had sunk from sight, 
And clouds hung like a pall upon a bier. 

So was your face, my darling, when you died. 
Bright with the glory that I could not see; 
For, though with straining, tear-dimmed eyes 

I tried, 
Only grief-laden clouds appeared to me. 



ST. VALENTINE'S DAY IN THE 59 
MORNING 

NOW, Mercury wears a suit of gray, 
And his twisted stick he has given away 
For a bag slung over his shoulder, 
While the feathery wings have left his feet, 
Yet he hurries along on his daily beat, 
Though the weather grows colder and colder. 

He brings me a letter from ker today: 
Now what in the world will my lady say? 
My mind is in wild disorder 
As I tear the dainty paper apart, 
When out falls a blood-red velvet heart, 
With a row of pins for a border ! 

Well, I pick up the pretty, useless thing, 

And love it, for here did her fingers cling; 

Yet I cannot choose but wonder 

Is it an emblem, a symbol true; 

Will she pierce my heart so, through and 

through. 
Till its depths are torn asunder? 



ST. VALENTINE'S DAY IN THE 60 
MORNING 

I think how a harsh word hurts and stings ; 
I think of a thousand hard, cruel things; 
For one gains with love, and one loses. 
Then I think of my dear one's sweet pure face, 
And my heart again at her feet I place — 
Let her plant there just what she chooses! 

And her pin-cushion — why, without a doubt. 
The pins were meant to be taken out ! 
How blind I have been, and stupid ! 
So this is the message she sends today: 
She will take each sting from my heart away, 
And undo the work of Cupid! 



POEMS 6i 

I THINK that poems are like precious 
stones, and some, 
Like opals where the hidden fire doth gleam 

and curl. 
And others where the lights in sparkling 

flashes come. 
And some are calm and restful, like a pearl. 

We read our poems, too, just as we wear our 

gems. 
Not 'mid the work and dust which would 

their lustre spoil. 
But at those times when rest the day's fierce 

torrent stems. 
And we are free from the great spell of toil. 

And yet some things we wear, through daily 

task and strife, 
A locket, or a chain or some such simple thing. 
Because we love the giver, or because our life 
Is tangled in it — like a wedding ring. 



POEMS 6a 

And so there are some poems — each one 

knows his own — 
Whose ringing when it finds us, never quite 

departs, — 
Although we hear it best when we are most 

alone, — 
And these we wear at all times in our hearts. 



OLD BATTLE PLAINS 63 

4 4 np HE Greeks have fled/* so rings the 

JL Trojan cry, 

And forth they rush in joy no man restrains, 
Nor dream that they the foe in ambush by. 
Laughs, as they hasten to the battle plains. 

" 'Twas there they set the battle in array. 
Here were Achilles' tents, see, naught re- 
mains. 
There were the ships, but all have gone away!" 

Thus lightly talk they on those battle-plains. 
* * * 

Oh, weary souls who deem the conflict past. 
Trust not your foe, defeat he only feigns. 
So bar again your gates and portals fast. 
And go not forth to your old battle-plains. 

Banish what you have suffered from your 

thought. 
No comfort comes in dwelling on your pains; 
Think not of all the conflicts you have fought, 
And go not forth to your old battle-plains. 



OLD BATTLE PLAINS 64 

For somewhere each has suffered a defeat. 
And somewhere each a victory attains; 
Leave it behind, — the bitter with the sweet. 
And go not forth to your old battle-plains! 



THE DEATH OF THE KING 65 

A KING once fainted in the days of old 
(So runs a Spanish legend I have read) 
And lay with pallid face, so still and cold, 
That all the people cried: "the King is dead!" 

So, in the custom of those ancient times. 
They made a monk of him who was a King, 
That thus his soul might rest from royal 

crimes, — 
They shaved his head, — they took his signet 

ring. 

And placed within his lifeless hand, instead, 
A crucifix, and holy vows they spoke, 
The cowl usurped the crown upon his head. 
When all was finished, lo, the King awoke! 

Awoke to find that he was dead indeed — 
His reign was passed, his power, his greatness 

fled. 
No more victorious armies would he lead, — 
How could he be a King when he was dead? 



THE DEATH OF THE KING 66 

He left his throne, his court, his royal halls, 

He left the grave wherein he might not hide, 

And in the Abbey*s silent, holy walls. 

He Hved a monk, who had a monarch died. 
* * * 

Why am I haunted by this tale today? 
Why in my thoughts so sadly does it ring? 
It is because a life has passed away 
That leaves me throneless, — I, who was a 
King? 

The King of one true heart! Was I not 

blest? 
But now, — I live, and yet my reign is past. 
My spirit in dull robes has Sorrow drest, 
And Grief, with many vows, has bound me 

fast. 

I watch the world go by, with alien eyes. 
I seem a strange marked creature, set apart. 
And though I talk with men 'neath sunny 

skies. 
Am still walled-in, with silence in my heart. 



THE DEATH OF THE KING 67 

Ah, Life may say, "Come rule me once again,*' 
And Joy may plead, "Come follow where I 

tread,'* 
And Love may cry, "Oh, be my King!" — in 

vain; 
How can I be a king, when I am dead? 

And yet, — did he grow holy, that dead King, 
In these calm, cloistered days, when life was 

past? 
And can there be so strange, so sweet a thing 
That in this death, I find my God at last? 



GIRDLED 68 

I KNOW a tall straight tree, whose spread- 
ing branches wide, 
Gleam in the sun and quiver in the breeze 
And in its shelt'ring boughs, the little birds 

abide. 
And it is full of life and melodies. 
It is so great and strong, it does not seem to 

know 
Of that white line, drawn round it, like a spell. 
But I — I see the mark of each death-meaning 

blow. 
And every leaf to me, but waves farewell. 



GIRDLED 69 

I know a noble life, that grandly in its place, 
Gives shelter to each hurt and helpless thing, 
That grows each day more fair, more full of 

strength and grace. 
More gladdened with the songs, that true 

hearts sing. 
And so, all unawares, through darkness and 

through light. 
It lifts its dauntless head to distant skies. 
Yet death has girdled it, — oh life so fair and 

bright, 
I cannot see you for the tears that rise! 



THE LIGHTS OF ITHACA 70 

ULYSSES, after many years of war, 
And weary wandering, to his home drew 
near. 
So near, that o*er the peaceful waves he saw 
The lights of Ithaca burn bright and clear. 

So near he almost listened for the sound 
Of dear familiar voices. Well he knew 
He held all evil winds securely bound; 
Only a gentle west wind softly blew. 

And so he slept. The tale is sad today. 

Of how his comrades let the wild winds free 

That drove the ship from home and lights 

away. 

And when he wakened, he was far at sea. 
* * * 



THE LIGHTS OF ITHACA 71 

I, weary as those men whom Homer sung, 
And restless as the sea that tossed their ships; 
I, speaking ever in an unknown tongue, 
Felt the cool hand of peace upon my lips. 

I saw the harbor lights shine clear and bright 
Across the troubled water of my life. 
And hope stirred all my pulses with delight. 
I thought to rest, and end the long, hard 
strife. 

It was the light in your dear eyes that seemed 
To shine on me, and bid me no more roam. 
But enter in your heart; and there I dreamed 
That I might come as one comes to his home. 



THE LIGHTS OF ITHACA 72 

Then evil winds arose and blew with might; 
The salt spray passing, seemed to mock at me, 
The lights grew dim, then faded from my 

sight, 
And I was driven out again to sea. 

Yet, as storm-tossed Ulysses often thought 
How those dear lights from home, shone once 

so near, 
So, I, who have with many troubles fought. 
Think of your eyes, — are they still blue and 

clear? 



THE DEATH OF BALDER 73 

ONCE long ago, among the gods, rose 
Balder fair and bright. 
And laughing, bade them aim at him, because 

his life was charmed, 
So, though their spears and darts, they hurled 

at him with might. 
He stood amid the heavy rain of weapons, 
all unharmed. 

Then there rose a poor blind god, one who 

loved Balder well. 
And with unerring, feeble aim, his harmless 

weapon sped — 
A piece of mistletoe! It struck and Balder 

fell. 
And all Valhalla rang with grief, and mourned 

for Balder dead. 



THE DEATH OF BALDER 74 

And so sometimes the happiness that sings 

within our heart, 
Against all heavy, evil blows that fate can 

strike seems charmed; 
Our gladness sings unhurt, we laugh at each 

new dart 
That dashes where our treasure is, and leaves 

it all unharmed. 

Then one who never meant us ill, speaks 

but a little word, 
A careless, heedless word perhaps — a very 

little thing, 
And happiness lies dead — dead like a singing 

bird, 
That never more will spread its wing, that 

never more will sing. 



THE WORD AND THE 75 

RESPONSE 

ONE man has a message to deliver; 
Labors, till he gives his thought a name, 
When ten thousand dumb hearts throb and 

quiver. 
And leap toward his thought like flame to 
flame. 

Like a cameo, clear-cut and shining, 
Stands his message; graven deep, and wrought 
Like intaglios, are the hearts divining 
All the truth and beauty of his thought. 

It is good when one man comes though t-giv- 

Though with faltering tongue or unskilled 

hand, — 
It is better that somewhere are living 
All the thousand hearts that understand. 



TO THE BRIDE IN "THE 76 

RUSSIAN WEDDING FEAST" 

O SWEET, shy maiden, with the pale, 
pure face, 
Clad in the glory of your wedding gown. 
With head bent low beneath its shining crown. 
And slender form, alive with fear and grace, — 
Lovers arm will hold you in this strange new 

place; 
Lift from your eyes the snowy lids, cast down, 
N or heed the jest of friend or village clown, — 
Trust Love, that will exalt you, not abase! 

Oh, stand forever,maiden full of charm! 
The perfect type of that sweet, silent strife 
That comes to every woman, when Love's 

arm 
Waits to enfold her, longs to crown her wife; 
'Mid the rough world that laughs at her alarm, 
Pressed by the known upon the unknown life! 



MARGUERITES 77 

THE thick June grasses cling around her 
feet, 
All starred with daisies is the meadow wide, 
The clover lifts its balls of nectar sweet. 
And buttercups flash gold on every side. 

She seeks to know her fate, to learn her lot; 
A daisy is her sibyl, pure and fair; 
The petals fall, — "he loves me, loves me not,** 
She murmurs as they flutter in the air. 

* * * 

O maiden, poets write for us in vain. 
We push the printed page aside, and find 
In the low murmur of your soft refrain. 
The living, breathing music of mankind. 

And the true wheels, which move the great 

round world. 
Are those, that in your slender hand you hold. 
Whose spokes are milk-white petals faintly 

curled, 
That cling, like thoughts, around a heart of 

gold 



ENVY OF GRIEF 78 

THE tears streamed from her lovely, soft 
blue eyes, 
Flushed were her cheeks and bowed her slen- 
der frame. 
As a great gust of bitter anguish came 
And held her in its grasp; with sobbing sighs 
It died away as winds die, soon to rise 
With greater fury, fanning all the flame 
Of her wild sorrow, till she could not tame 
The fire that raged within her. I, grown wise 
And old and weary, heard her sobbing sore. 
And watched her with compassion where she 

sat. 
Then came a sudden envy as this truth 
Flashed through my heart that pitied her no 

more, — 
Only the very young can grieve like that, — 
And I would take her sorrow with her youth! 



HER HEART 79 

^^Q^ HE has no heart," they said. "If ever 
w30ne throbbed within her woman's 
breast, 
Its beating long ago ceased forever; 
It troubles not her spirit's rest. 

"But fair and charmful as the ocean, 
A hundred changes play and go 
Across her face, but no emotion 
Touches the depths that lie below." 

So lovers came in vain. She pondered 
Their tender words, and smiled at first, 
Thensighed,"I have no heart,"and wondered, 
Was she of women blest or curst? 

But suddenly a day of waking 
Came like a blinding flash of light : 
Her heart arose, and, bowed and shaking, 
Her whole soul trembled at the sight. 

Her heart arose: like that blind giant. 
It held within its powerful clasp 
The pillars of her life, and pliant 
As reeds they seemed within its grasp. 



HER HEART 80 

It drew the mighty pillars over; 
They groaned and shuddered in their fall, 
And many a friend and many a lover, 
Was hurt beneath the shattered wall. 

The temple of her life lay broken. 
And when the ruins were cleared away, 
Bleeding and dead, with words unspoken, 
She and her heart together lay. 



NOVEMBER 8i 

A FAIR, sweet woman, who has lived her 
story, 
Standing serene though sad, a throneless 

queen, 
While still around her head there shines the 

glory 
Of all the happy days that she has seen. 

Yes, she has lived, has known earth's pomp 

and fashion, 
Held in her hand all things that women prize. 
Felt in her throbbing heart all true sweet 

passion. 
Looked in love's face with clear and steadfast 

eyes. 

What does it matter that the time was fleeting? 
What does it matter that love could not last? 
Once she has lived and while her heart is 

beating 
She will remember all that blessed past. 



NOVEMBER 82 

Always around her path the old days linger. 
Weaving their meshes, like a golden spell, 
Touching her curved red lips with hushing 

finger, 
So that her secret she may never tell. 

What though she look at you, with eyes 

beguiling? 
What though, with parted lips, her face 

allures? 
*Tis but the Mona Lizas, mystic smiling, 
Hiding her own heart while she laughs at 

yours. 

Others may promise much, — she will remem- 
ber. 
They will pass on, with careless happy tread, 
But she has lived, — she only is November, 
Laughing a little though her heart is dead! 



UNFINISHED 83 

LIFE lay before her, like an uncut book; 
Whose pages fair she opened without 
fear, — 
We read it proudly, gladly, whose hearts 

burned 
With love for her, and joy that we might look 
Upon her story; and we loved to hear 
The gentle rustle of the leaves she turned. 

Unfinished — yet for us the tale is done. 
Perhaps *tis read in other, fairer lands. 
By eyes whose sight the salt tears do not blur, 
But in that chapter which she hath begun. 
We have no part, although, with trembling 

hands. 
We long to turn the leaf and follow her. 



BRICABRAC VERSES ^ 



OUT OF KEY 87 

I WROTE a poem once, in the hey-day of 
youth, 
And waited joyfully its printed form to scan; 
It is not published yet, and 'tis the solemn 

truth. 
That T am now an aged, aged man. 

I wrote a little song about the"good,red wine,'* 

And all the cheer around "the beaker's foam- 
ing edge," 

And they kindly printed this drinking song of 
mine. 

Upon the very day I signed the pledge! 

I wrote a sonnet, too, 'twas full of wild despair. 
Of blighted hope and love, and joy that flew 

away. 
And other dismal things — I could have torn 

my hair, 
To see it published on my wedding day 1 



OUT OF KEY 88 

I wrote once of how sweet it was to live — to be 
Upon this smiling earth, that blesses far and 

wide, 
And, after many years, they sent the proof to 

me, 
When I was thinking some of suicide! 

I wrote some giddy lines (I hate to own it 

here). 
That ended in "tra-la" and "how is that for 

high?*' 
And 'twill be just my luck to have that thing 

appear 
As an obituary, when I die! 



CHRISTMAS GREENS 89 

WITH spicy pine and with cedar fine, 
The walls of our home are garnished, 
And the holly gleams till it almost seems 
As if it had just been varnished! 

There are wreaths and stars, there are ferns 

in jars. 
There are Christmas texts in places. 
And the ivy twines its rambling vines 
All over the curtains' laces. 

Trimmed with loving care, the tree is there; 
It looks like a tall green spire. 
And its candles wait in solemn state 
For a touch of Promethean fire. 

But fairer to me than the Christmas tree. 
Though with beautiful things we wreathe it. 
Is the mistletoe bough that my heart loves 

rrow 
For the fruit that grew once beneath it! 



THE IRONY OF GREATNESS 90 

A PLAIN, grave man once grew quite 
celebrated; 
Dame Grundy met him with her blandest 

smile; 
And Mrs. Shoddy, finding him much, feted. 
Gave him a dinner in her swellest style. 

Her dining-table was a blaze of glory; 
Soft light from many colored candles fell 
Upon the young, the middle-aged, and 

hoary — 
On beauty, and on those who "made up well." 

A piece of crimson plush across the table 
Shimmered its royal way from side to side. 
And Mrs. S., wherever she was able. 
Had loops and ends of satin ribbon tied. 

Her china was a miracle of beauty — 
No service like it ever had been sold; 
And being unsmuggled, with the price and 

duty. 
Was very nearly worth its weight in gold. 



THE IRONY OF GREATNESS 91 

The flowers were wonderful — I think that 

maybe 
Only another world has flowers more fair; 
Each rose was big enough to brain a baby, 
And there were several bushels of them there. 

The serving was the acme of perfection; 
Waiters were many, silent, deft, and fleet; 
Their manner seemed a reverent affection; 
And oh, what stacks of things there were to eat! 

And yet the man for all this honor singled. 
Would have exchanged it with the greatest 

joy 

For one plain meal of pork and cabbage min- 
gled. 
Cooked by his mother when he was a boy ! 



TO MRS. CARLYLE 92 

I HAVE read your glorious letters, 
Where you threw aside all fetters, 
Spoke your thoughts and mind out freely, in 

your own delightful style. 
And I fear my state's alarming; 
For these pages are so charming. 
That my heart I lay before you, — take it, 
Jeannie Welsh Carlyle. 

And I sit here thinking, thinking. 

How your life was one long winking 

At poor Thomas' faults and failings, and. his 

undue share of bile! 
Won't you own, dear, just between us, 
That this living with a genius 
Isn't after all, so pleasant, — ^is it 
Jeannie Welsh Carlyle? 



TO MRS. CARLYLE 93 

There was nothing that's demeaning 
In those frequent times of cleaning, 
When you scoured and scrubbed and ham- 
mered, in such true housewifely 
style; 
And those charming teas and dinners, 
Graced by clever saints and sinners, 
Make me long to have been present — with 

you, 
Jeannie Welsh Carlyle. 

How you fought with dogs and chickens, 
Playing young women, and the dickens 
Knows what else; you stilled all racket, 

that might Thomas' sleep beguile; 
How you wrestled with the taxes. 
How you ground T. Carlyle's axes. 
Making him the more dependent on you — 
Jeannie Welsh Carlyle. 



TO MRS. CARLYLE 94 

Through it all from every quarter 

Gleams, like sunshine on the water, 

Your quick sense of fun and humor, and 

your bright, bewitching smile; 
And T own, I fairly revel 
In the way that you say "devil," 
'Tis so terse, so very vigorous, so like 
Jeannie Welsh Carlyle. 

All the time, say, were you missing 

Just a little love and kissing, — 

Silly things, that help to lighten many a weary 

dreary while? 
Never a word you say to show it; 
We may guess but never know it; 
You went quietly on without it — loyal 
Jeannie Welsh Carlyle. 



THE WHIRLIGIG OF TIME 95 

IN the days when blue China abounded 
On tables and not on the wall, 
A lady there Uved with ungrounded 
Dislike and contempt for it all. 

She hated those three weeping-willows, 
And was heartily tired of the sight 
Of those somewhat conventional billows, 
Which roll toward the bridge on the right. 

She thought it so very old-fashioned. 
So common, so rough to the hands. 
And she'd talk in a way quite impassioned 
Of the beauty of simple gold bands. 

Her granddaughter, fair Angelina, 
When she married Augustus Von Pruyn, 
Had a full set of Haviland china 
Of madly aesthetic design. 

She has also a few cherished dishes, 
Which are carefully guarded from whacks, 
In crimson plush frames, and she wishes 
Them all to be mentioned as "plaques." 



THE WHIRLIGIG OF TIME g6 

Yet with all this assortment of faience 
Angelina is far from content; 
She has many a day-dreamy seance 
In which visions keramic are blent. 

For small are Augustus's earnings. 

And all modern china she hates; 

So her life is embittered with yearnings 

For some old-fashioned blue Canton plates! 



A PITIFUL PICTURE 97 

SHE asked the price of Crown Derby 
ware. 
She gazed at the Royal Worcester 
Till, to purchase at least a set or two, 
The clerk thought he'd really induced her. 

She lingered long over Cloisonne; 
She lovingly looked at Satzuma; 
In fact all the rarest, costliest things 
Were the ones which suited her humor. 

The gleam of the beautiful gem-like glass 
Seemed to thrill her very soul, 
And she lost her heart completely in, 
A misshapen India bowl. 

Then she turned away with a little sigh, 
And murmured, — "I wish I were richer," 
And went to a counter where she bought 
A fifty cent Japanese pitcher! 



THE JAPANESE FAN 98 

OTHERS may sing of the budding trees, 
The greening grass and the balmy breeze, 
Of the robin's song, and the other things 
We have learned to expect with recurring 

springs: 
Others may sing of them — those who can — 
I sing the song of the Japanese fan. 

Of the Japanese fan, with its wild, weird birds; 
Its strange and peculiar flocks and herds; 
Its sunsets and thunder-clouds — gloomy fore- 

boders 
Of storms that are coming; its peaked pagodas; 
Its flowers of a species quite unknown to man; 
But which flourish and thrive on a Japanese 

fan. 



THE JAPANESE FAN 99 

Then there are the women, those curious crea- 
tures, 

With their fortified heads and their queer bias 
features. 

And there is the bird lightly poised on a twig, 

The twig very little, the bird very big; 

And those intricate tangles, without form or 
plan. 

That gleam from the sides of a Japanese fan. 

In the background we often see Mount Fusi- 

yama. 
As sacred an object as Thibet*s Grand Lama; 
The shrubs and the bushes most likely are tea; 
But the cross-legged gentlemen — who can 

they be, 
Vacantly gazing as hard as they can. 
While sitting around on a Japanese fan? 



L.^t 



THE JAPANESE FAN loo 

Perhaps they are gods — they have rather that 

air; 
Perhaps *tis a rule of art over there, 
Which no one dare break least he be undone, 
That the gods cross their legs and the storks 

stand on one, 
For thus, since their importation began, 
They have always appeared on a Japanese 

fan. 

Whatever they're meant for, I bless one and 

all. 
As I pin them around over spots on the wall. 
As I carelessly stick them in jars and in bowls, 
And cover adroitly the black stove-pipe holes; 
No matter how bare be the desert, I can 
Make it bloom like the rose with the Japan- 
ese fan. 



THE JAPANESE FAN loi 

O Japanese fan, if you only had feet, 

Vd lay down before them a rich tribute meet 

In praise of your beauty and use, and the 

grace 
With which you can cover an unsightly place; 
And beHeve me, Til sing as long as I can, 
Long may you wave, O Japanese fan! 



TEMPUS FUGIT 102 

I. 

IT was at the first ball of the season, 
And her coming-out party as well, 
That my heart broke a lance with my reason 
Because of this dear little belle. 

For that night I was pained to discover 
That I wanted her all for myself — 
And yet I, in the role of a lover. 
Had long since been laid on the shelf. 

So I watched her like coveted treasure. 
And held back the words on my tongue. 
For I said, "Do not spoil her fresh pleasure — 
You are old, and her heart is too young." 



TEMPUS FUGIT 103 

II. 

It was well toward the end of the season 
Ere I saw her once more, in a throng; 
And she gaily demanded the reason 
I had kept out of sight for so long. 

She had had the "best time** she asserted, 
Though her face had lost all its fresh bloom, 
And she flirted — ye gods, how she flirted! — 
With half of the men in the room. 

I no longer adored her so madly. 
And was glad that my love was untold, 
For I thought to myself, rather sadly, 
"Fm too young for a heart grown so old!" 



TWO SCENES FROM AN 104 

UNPUBLISHED DRAMA 

IT was in a garden shady, 
Where the moonbeams softly lay. 
That a lover and his lady 
Met, a sad farewell to say. 

There were sighs and sobs in plenty, 
Locks of hair and flowers I ween. 
Tin-types, too, — the youth was twenty, 
And the maiden seventeen. 

And his eyes were moist and shiny 
As he tried his love to tell. 
While she, too, turned on the briny 
Most successfully and well. 

Then they vowed in terms caloric, 
Nothing should their true love sever. 
And were really Pinaforic 
In their frequent use of "Never." 



TWO SCENES FROM AN 105 

UNPUBLISHED DRAMA 

Well, they met. When many seasons 
Neatly had the past interred, 
Doubtless both had had good reasons 
Why the meeting was deferred. 

In a widow's cap, beguiling, 

She was (very strange is life,) 

While he came up, pleased and smiling, 

With his pretty second wife. 

Bows were made and hands were shaken. 
Then old times were gaily quoted. 
Chirped he: "If Tm not mistaken, 
Wasn't I once quite devoted?" 

"Was it youP" She gave another 
Smile, — "I don't remember well. 
It was you or else your brother, 
Which, I really couldn't tell." 



IF I WERE A GHOST io6 

IF I were a ghost and you were a ghost, 
And we met in the dead man's land, 
Would your heart rejoice at the sound of my 

voice? 
Would you shrink at the touch of my hand ? 

If you knew at once, as I know you would, 

That all of the pleasure and pain 

Of the gladness of love, and the sadness of 

love 
Were to be lived over again, — 

Would Heaven seem Heaven, then, do you 

think? 
Would you find it a sweet surprise 
If the old unrest, that had died in your breast, 
Should awaken again in the skies? 



IF I WERE A GHOST 107 

Or would it not darken that fair new world 

With a shadow of earthly stainP 

For if perfect bliss could be marred by my 

kiss, 
Then the peace of heaven were vain. 

Ah, foolish questions and idle thoughts! 
What do we care for the life above. 
When our souls we know, wherever they go. 
Will die with the death of our love? 



AMONG THE LILIES io8 

SHE has been among the lilies 
Where their fragrance rises sweet, 
And the air so soft and still is — 
There have strayed my darling's feet. 

She has been among them lately, 
Where they grow so white and tall ; 
She has touched their blossoms stately, — 
She, the fairest flower of all ! 

Something in her face doth show it. 
Breathes the tale where'er she goes; 
Shall I tell you how I know it? 
There is yellow on her nose! 



SHOES AS THEY ARE WORN 109 

10 A. M. 

AH, little slippers of dainty make, 
Pointed at toe and high of heel, 
Couldn't you tell me without a mistake 
How to-day does my lady feel? 
Did she tap, tap, tap at the words I wrote? — 
That's an ominous sign, you see. 
Did she glance at the sky as she read my 

note? — 
Then she will ride to-day with me. 

12 M. 

'Absurd little boot that peeps beneath 

Her habit's hem with silver spur. 

Where her foot lies like a flower in its sheath — 

Who'd be afraid of you — or her? 

"Booted and spurred" — thus my lady rides. 

Yet I survey her quite unawed. 

Such a dashing trooper with "heavy strides;" 

Dear little boot, I fear you're a fraud; 



SHOES AS THEY ARE WORN no 

3 p. M. 
Snug fitting shoes that appear to cling 
Round her ankles with conscious pride — 
Who'd think you would do so shocking a 

thing 
As almost hourly to come untied? 
I*ve knelt before you in many a spot, 
The proudest and clumsiest of men, 
But though tied fast in a true-lover's knot, 
You always come untied again. 

II p. M. 
Fairy-ljke slippers that prank and prance. 
Silk-clad insteps that shine and gleam. 
Many a night you have led me a dance, 
Waltzing afterward through my dream! 
Have you wings like those on Mercury's feet. 
Slippers that seem to tread on air? 
Does a glad heart make you so light and fleet. 
Slippers fit for a bonbonniere? 



SHOES AS THEY ARE WORN iii 

Shoes, boots, and spurs that my lady wore, 

Slippers fashioned with cunning art, 

You have walked where no one has walked 

before — 
Into the fastness of my heart. 
There I shall keep you as prisoners sweet. 
Hoping some day to set you free. 
When she has promised her dear little feet 
Shall walk the highway of life with me. 



A CHANGE 112 

WITHIN a frame of Russia leather 
My calendar found place, 
Those numbered days of diverse weather. 
That look so uniform together, 
Yet show such different face. 

She took them out — all bound together — 
And in their place I see 
Her pictured face within the leather; 
I cannot tell now of the weather — 
She fills all days for me. 



"BETWEEN YOU AND I" 113 

MISS Minerva Van Boston's engage- 
ment is broken. 
She's returned to her lover each letter and 

token 
They have had their last drive and their last 

friendly chat; 
And the rather remarkable reason why, 
Is because he would S2iy "between you and I" 
And Minerva Van Boston could not endure 

that. 

Of a very old family he was a scion. 
And the kind of a man it was safe to rely on. 
With a character no one would dare to im- 
peach. 
And in fact in every other respect 
His habits were perfect, his manners correct; 
Yet he did make this terrible error in speech. 



"BETWEEN YOU AND I" 114 

Miss Minerva Van Boston had tried hard to 

break him, 
She had reasoned in vain, ere she vowed to 

forsake him. 
She had been, as it were, twixt the fire and 

the hammer. 
She had talked to him kindly, firmly, severely, 
And to tell the sad truth, she still loved him 

dearly; 
But dearer by far was her love for her grammar. 

And to live with a man who was slightly de- 
fective 
In the daily use of his pronouns objective. 
Would have caused Miss Minerva much 

anguish and worry. 
So with many regrets, and half broken-hearted 
These lovers, poor things, have forever been 

parted 
By the shade of ridiculous old Lindley Mur- 
ray. 



THE STORK'S JEREMIADE. 115 

44i^NE-LEGGED stork, thou standest 

^^ sad and lonely; 

A tear, methinks, I notice in thine eye. 
Oh, tell to me, yes, whisper to me only. 
What is the sorrow which I think I spy?" 

And lo, from out the meshes of the tidy 
There came a feeble, mournful sort of squeak; 
And while, amazed, I opened my eyes wide, 

he 
Opened his mouth and thus began to speak. 

"I am so very tired of being artistic; 
My life is one long, patient, painful ache; 
1 am so weary of these weird and mystic 
Positions which they force my form to take. 

"They've worked me in all kinds and sorts of 
stitches. 

High art and button-hole, outline and cross- 
stitch. 

Standing around promiscuously in ditches, 

And looking like a buzzard or an ostrich. 



THE STORK'S JEREMIADE ii6 

"They've worked me frequently on Java 

canvas, 
On momie-cloth; on flannels thin and thick; 
In fact, in every single way they can fuss, 
I have appeared until I'm really sick. 

"In crewels, in silk, in worsted, and in cotton, 

Now black, now white, now grave, now mad- 
ly gay, 

They've worked me, and one wrong is unfor- 
gotton. 

They've done me most and worst in applique. 

"Sometimes they plant me 'mid some rushes 

speary. 
In attitudes no well-bred stork would take. 
Holding one leg up till I get so weary 
I sometimes think my poor strained back 

will break. 



THE STORK'S JEREMIADE 117 

"They've worked me standing, running, 

sleeping, flying. 
Sometimes I'm gazing at a crewel sun; 
They've worked me every way, I think, but 

dying. 
And oh, I wish they'd do that and be done! 

"I could forgive them all this bitter wronging, 
If they would grant one favor, which I beg. 
Would gratify but once my soul's deep long- 
ing, 
Just to put down my cramped and unused 
leg. 

"Know you of any one with sorrows greater? 
A creature with a life that's more forlorn? 
Hounded forever by the Decorator; 
I wish, I wish, I never had been born !" 

A silence fell. I gazed; he had subsided. 
I listened vainly. All was dumb and still 
Upon the tidy, where the stork resided. 
With upheld leg, and red and open bill. 



OH, GREAT TRUE HEART! 



OH, GREAT TRUE HEART! 121 

OH, great true heart that sailed life's 
stormy seas 
With fearless courage in the roughest blast, — 
The voyage is over, — you have come at last 
To a safe, sheltered harbor, that will please 
Your sea-worn ship, and give your tired soul 

ease ! 
I see you still, as often in the past, — 
The fleck of ocean on your brown hair cast. 
The sea blue in your eyes ! Ah, God's de- 
crees 
Bore you from us this time, as oft before, 
Under "sealed orders." With our narrow 

scope 
We cannot see you on that distant shore, — 
Yet we, left here, with our great grief to cope. 
Think of the stars, that all your life you wore, 
And know the anchor is the sign of hope. 



HERE endeth VERSES By Bessie 
Chandler. Printed and sold by 
Langworthy & Stevens, at the House of the 
Blue Sky Press, 473 a Kenwood Avenue, 
Chicago. Done in January, M C M I I. 



MAR 10 1902 



WAR. 17 1902 



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